Wishful Thinking
by Chinese Bakery
Summary: She shouldn’t feel so comfortable, rummaging through his bedroom uninvited, but it’s Jim’s bedroom. Set during Email Surveillance.


Wishful Thinking  
Author: chinesebakery  
Characters: Jim/Pam  
Rating: PG-13  
Spoilers: 2x09, "E-mail Surveillance"  
Summary: She shouldn't feel so comfortable, rummaging through his bedroom uninvited, but it's _Jim's bedroom_.  
A/N: Thanks to kyrafic and becoolbec for the beta.

* * *

She's sitting on his bed, in this room that could easily pass as a teenager's lair if it hadn't been hastily tidied up earlier and maybe it should feel weird, but it doesn't. Besides, it can't really be considered spying when he's sitting across the room, shooting her mock-outraged sideway glances.

She doesn't pause to question her sudden elation or the avid curiosity that burns her fingers her as she skims through Jim's year book. She shouldn't feel so comfortable, rummaging through his bedroom uninvited, but it's _Jim's bedroom_. The idea makes her oddly giddy, and she hasn't even had any wine yet.

There are so many questions on the tip of her tongue, starting with whether the guitar leaning against the wall is only there to impress girls, and how can he possibly dare own a lava lamp in 2005, but she's smiling too hard to speak. The quilt is surprisingly soft and smells like laundry soap. It brings all kinds of incongruous images of him doing everyday things, meaningless things, like hang out the laundry, brush his teeth or have breakfast in his pajamas with his hair all messed up. She can picture him so easily it almost feels like a memory. It's a little disconcerting.

She gets up to put back the year book on the shelf and traces the line of book slices until her fingers encounter a thicker volume.

"Oooh," Pam squeals. "Photo album! You're going down, Halpert."

------

He should be downstairs entertaining his guests, certainly not sitting there, carefully carving in his memory the image of Pam sitting on his bed.

It's his party, and there are a million things he's supposed to be doing. He should be elbowing Mark before asking Dwight if he'd rather fight a Cylon or a Klingon, or maybe a Nazgûl, and let him elaborate on how he'd ultimately be victorious either way, thanks to his superior martial training and faultless knowledge of his opponents' combat flaws. He should be making sure Meredith remains relatively sober and fully clothed. Grill some burgers, get the karaoke ordeal started. But how can he do any of that when Pam is giggling, slouched on his bed?

And of course he's had a multitude of fantasies that featured her on his bed. Some sweet and mostly innocent, others that kept him awake at night, messed with his heart-rate and reminded him vividly of his adolescence. All of them were detailed, bright and stirring, possibly because none contained old class photos and another man's engagement ring sparkling at her finger. Or maybe they did, but he can't know for sure because there's no way he'll let himself examine this train of thought when she's lying on his bed.

The door is wide open, someone could come looking for him any minute and he's thankful. If it weren't for the very immediate possibility of getting caught and beaten silly the next morning, he might be trying something incredibly stupid that would mess things up further, and the current level of messiness is already quite troublesome to endure.

Pam turns another page and snickers, mindlessly tapping a spot next to her for him to sit, and his stomach is clenched so tightly with repressed lust he almost wishes Roy had made it to the barbecue after all.

------

"Oh my God, short shorts!" she says, bubbling with laughter.

"What? No! Those are not short shorts. They're regular basket ball shorts," he counters, feigning affront, as she resumes her careful study of the photo album.

She's so comfortable sitting here with him, teasing him senseless, that she takes her time going through the pages, making the moment last. There's a sense of restful intimacy she's never shared before, an evident ease and understanding she's never known, not even with Roy. She knows she could tell him anything, and that's the most comforting certainty she's ever felt. And of course, he can take her teasing better than anyone she's ever met.

"Nice haircut, too. I'd never pegged you as a mullet wearer."

"Oh, you're so very wrong. That's not a mullet. That's a regular haircut growing out. Your knowledge of fashionable hairstyle from the eighties is obviously very limited."

"Whatever you say, mullet boy. Did your mother cut your hair herself?" she inquires, her eyes rounding with realization.

"My mother is a very skilled woman," he informs her solemnly, fighting a smirk.

------

"Who's that?" Pam frowns.

"Uh, that's Sandra Nelson," he supplies, glancing at a slightly blurry photo of him and Sandy, drunk and giddy at a spring break party. His arm is draped around her shoulder, they're both beaming to the camera. Happier, simpler times. It's been a long time since he's felt that way.

"Old girlfriend?"

"Yup. From college."

"She's very pretty," she notes with a careful tone he can't immediately interpret.

"What are you implying here, Beesly? For your information, I was easily the most popular dork in my year. The frat girls? They worshipped me."

She chuckles and leans against his shoulder for a second, oblivious to his sudden stiffness.

Maybe being beaten silly isn't so terrible, after all. Bruises heal quickly, and he's always wondered what he'd look like with a black eye. Much to his dismay, he's never been the kind of guy who gets into fights, he's never even be bullied in junior high. He suspects Roy is exactly that type of guy. In fact, he's often wondered if that's something she likes about him. To this day, what Pam sees in Roy remains the greatest mystery he's ever encountered, and that's saying something considering his desk mate's somewhat different personality.

"I'm sure you were a terrific mascot," Pam generously offers, patting his arm.

She's beaming again, so close. Close enough to elicit all kinds of intoxicating urges. It would be so easy to tip her over and slip a hand under her shirt to find out if her skin is as wonderfully soft as it looks. He wants so desperately to trace her ribs to find out if she's ticklish, discover if she enjoys having her earlobe nibbled or hates it, and kiss her wrist to check if her pulse his racing like his, and this is definitely adolescence all over again because there's no way a grown man would get so worked up from a pat on the arm.

And damn, he needs to get out of here before she realizes something is going terribly wrong because can keep himself in check much longer.

"Aren't you hungry?" he asks abruptly as he jumps to his feet, his voice a little high. His stance is awkward and he prays, prays like he can't remember ever praying, for her to keep her eyes set on his face.

"A little," she shrugs.

"Okay then, let's get back downstairs."

He breathes as deeply and as possible without arousing suspicion, and notes that she really is the perfect woman because either she doesn't notice the source of his sudden discomfort, or she's being incredibly gracious about it and in both cases, he's grateful.

"After you," he adds, because you can never be too careful.

As he turns out the light and shuts his bedroom door, he takes a second to wonder how many times he'll replay that particular scene in his head, imagine all sorts of different endings, and whether he can count that high.

------

"Where the hell have you been, man? Dwight was just telling us about his Lord of the Rings memorabilia collection. Did you know there's an official Bilbo pipe?" Mark sounds appropriately delighted, and Jim can't repress a knowing smirk.

"Did he mention his Arwen earrings yet?"

Mark seems very pleased by this piece of information.

Out of the corner of his eye, Jim catches a glimpse of Pam who's animatedly chatting with Meredith, cool and unaffected as ever. He has to remind himself once more that every little moment that turns his world upside down means nothing at all. Wishful thinking is just that.

It's time to get the barbecue started, anyway.

------


End file.
